


Remnants

by 55vre55



Category: National Theatre, Treasure Island - Lavery, Treasure Island - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Angst, Based off the National Theatre production, F/M, Female Jim Hawkins, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, National Theatre - Freeform, Past Character Death, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/55vre55/pseuds/55vre55
Summary: Jim should have known their luck couldn’t hold out forever.If she could even call it luck, after everything that had already happened.
Relationships: Jim Hawkins & John Silver, Jim Hawkins/John Silver, Jim Hawkins/Long John Silver
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Remnants

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the 2015 National Theatre production of Treasure Island with Arthur Darvill and Patsy Ferran, recently broadcast online as part of their National Theatre At Home series.
> 
> Happy one-month-iversary to our teeny tiny NTL Treasure Island fandom discord!
> 
> This... is not exactly what I intended to write. One day I may be able to write something other than Jim angsting about Silver's death, but not this day.

Jim should have known their luck couldn’t hold out forever.

If she could even call it luck, after everything that had already happened.

* * *

Sometimes it all feels like a dream—leaving the island, making it to Port Royal, finding a new captain, a new crew. Setting back out across the dark, empty sea, the Hispaniola heavy with gold in her belly.

Jim’s tried to stay out of everyone’s way, mostly. It feels odd, being back on this ship with so many unfamiliar faces. Even Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, Gray—sometimes they feel like strangers, too.

The one thing she’d put her foot down about, when the new crew started coming aboard, was the galley. She could handle all of the cooking, she had informed the Squire and the Doctor brusquely, much the same way she’d informed them that she had the ship, safe, hidden on the other side of the island.

The galley was his domain, his and hers, and she can’t quite bear to let anyone else intrude.

His things are all still in their bunk, just as she’d last seen them. An extra shirt, a few socks, a sewing kit. His hat, soft and green. A small tin of kohl, something she’d never seen amongst his possessions before coming back to this empty room.

She’d noticed the kohl, of course, on the island. It’d made him look sharper, more defined, more dangerous.

More handsome.

The tin was the only thing she’d touched, curious about what was inside. She’d quickly, guiltily, returned it to its final resting place when her thoughts had started getting away from her.

His long leather coat is still hanging, right outside their room. She doesn’t know what happened to the beautiful orange coat with the flowers; she’s searched the entire ship and it’s nowhere to be found.

She can’t help but feel a bit disappointed at that.

So his things sit, untouched, as she dances alone around the galley each day. It’s not the same, without another warm body occasionally pressing up against hers, without a friendly elbow in her side every so often, without his whistling and singing and jokes, but she quickly gets used to her new rhythm.

Ben’s tried to come and talk to her, a few times. But after the fourth or fifth time, he seemed to realize that she wasn’t about to stop giving him one-word answers to everything.

It’s not that she hates Ben, exactly. She pities him, and she knows he’s a dark mirror into what could have happened to her. She knows he thinks he did the right thing. Someday, she might be able to call him a friend.

But not now, not while she’s still wrapped up in this ship, in this space that was just his and hers.

The one person she’s been able to stand these past few weeks, surprisingly, is Silent Sue.

She’d never known Sue, or any of the Squire’s people for that matter, all that well. If any of them ever stopped by the Benbow for a drink, she was usually too busy to chat, and they all had busy lives of their own.

But after the first time she catches Sue, lingering at the table long after the rest of the crew has eaten and gone, staring at the spots where Job and Mickey used to sit, she starts to wonder. Sue stares at Ruth’s empty chair the most, and Jim wonders if she might not be the only one grieving everything they lost on that island.

After that, she lets Sue sit at the table whenever she wants. She won’t turn away someone else who might be just as lost as she is.

Everything starts to become routine again, and it’s strange, how much it helps to calm her thoughts. She’s been plagued by dreams ever since the island—some good, some bad, some… completely, utterly terrible—but they start to seem less vivid as she devotes herself to her work.

They manage almost three weeks of smooth sailing, and Jim finally starts to feel happy about being back on this ship. It’s different, but maybe it’s a good different, and maybe she’ll be able to move on when they get home.

And that is when their luck runs out.

* * *

The air is practically humming when Jim wakes, their twentieth day out, and when she finally ventures above deck after lunch, it’s to the sight of heavy gray storm clouds blanketing the sky. The wind whips through her hair, and the sails have already been furled in preparation for riding out the storm.

She knows by now that she has no place on deck, not amongst this well-honed crew. Part of her is tempted, though, as it starts to rain, and she finds herself drawn to the very rail she’d once almost been pulled over.

The wind is picking at her clothes, tugging and pulling just as it had back then. The waves are already starting to build, the sea reaching up the side of the ship towards her. But there’s no arm coming to wrap around her waist this time, and it’s suddenly all too much.

She scrambles back below deck, practically running back to the galley as the ship lurches below her feet. The storm is building, fast, and she just wants to be away from it.

The galley has three small portholes, which she usually likes to keep open so she can feel the breeze and smell the salt. Now, though, she hurries to close the covers, wanting to block out the noise as much as possible. One- two- she pauses on the third, staring out at the waves and the clouds. A flash of lightning, a crack of thunder jolts her from her horrified watching and she slams the third cover shut.

She’s breathing hard, struggling to keep her feet as the Hispaniola heaves up and down. Her hands are trembling, so she tries to find something to occupy them. She banks the fire in the stove, tidies her pots and pans, cleans her knives. Another clap of thunder, right overhead, makes her flinch, and the point of the blade nicks her thumb.

She feels like she’s watching from afar as a drop of blood wells up from the cut. It starts to drip down towards her palm, oozing slowly over her skin, before the deck rolls sharply under her feet again and she starts. Cursing, she drops the knife and grabs a rag, wrapping it tightly around her thumb. She’s never been so careless before.

Giving up on cleaning, she stows the knife and fetches her spare shirt and needle and thread instead. It’s got several holes in it that need attention if she’s to keep wearing it all the way home, and they should keep her busy enough until this storm passes.

The ship is still tossing unsteadily, so she doesn’t want to try to sit at the table. Instead, she takes the blanket from her bed and curls up in the corner between the stove and their bunk. The lingering warmth should be enough to drown out the chill of the storm.

That is, until more thunder sounds, seemingly enveloping the ship now. She drops her needle, her hands are shaking so hard, and so she thrusts the shirt away in disgust.

Her poor Hispaniola is creaking and rumbling, fighting against the waves and winds until it almost feels like she’ll shake apart under Jim’s hands. The lantern hanging in the center of the galley is swinging wildly, casting bizarre shadows on the walls that threaten to reach out and grab her.

Trembling all over, Jim curls into a ball on her blanket, hands clamped over her ears and eyes tight shut, wishing fervently for it all to go away. The rag around her thumb is rough against her skin and she focuses on it, rather than the roiling of the ship and her stomach.

Then, a hand on her back. A warm, all-too-familiar, hand, pressed between her shoulder blades. She feels a presence next to her, and it somehow makes the sound, the smell, the feel of the storm all recede, leaving her in a bubble of warmth.

She refuses to open her eyes.

Because it’s not him.

It _can’t_ be him.

But if it’s not him…

She shudders, hands tightening over her ears, and yet still she hears him.

_No, Master Storm. This girl belongs to me._

* * *

Jim’s not sure where she is for a moment when she wakes. She feels the familiar, gentle swell of the ship, but the only thing beneath her is a blanket, not the rough straw mattress of her bunk. When she opens her eyes, she’s greeted by her crumpled shirt and the rounded side of the oven. The floor of the galley, then, though she doesn’t remember falling asleep.

She sits up, yawning, and another blanket slides off her shoulders. She grabs at it absently and notices the cloth around her thumb.

The memory is hazy, but she doesn’t think she did much more than press the rag to the cut to stop the bleeding. Now, however, it’s wrapped cleanly, even tied with a neat knot. No blood shows on the outside of the bandage, so it must not have been as bad a cut as she first thought. She wasn’t thinking clearly thanks to the storm.

It must have passed by now, since the ship is no longer pitching from side to side and she can’t hear anything but the faint snap of sails and cries of birds. She yawns, and moves to fold up the blanket now resting in her lap.

Her hands start to shake again as she stares down at the intricate pattern of flower and leaves, cream on an orange background. She can’t fathom how it is here, when she spent so long looking for it. But here it is, the coat, his coat, draped over her lap.

Hesitantly, trembling, she raises the collar to her nose. It still smells of him, and a warm feeling fills the pit of her stomach at the familiar mix of musk and spices.

Suddenly overcome, she crushes it to her face, blocking everything else out for a moment, drowning in him. Her shoulders shake, even if no tears come. An odd mix of relief, bewilderment, and grief settles into her chest.

Finally, she uncurls, smoothing a hand over the textured cloth. It’s such a pretty thing, for a cook, but then, she knows he has—had—a fondness for pretty things.

Slowly, she gets up, still clinging onto the coat as she crosses over to the portholes. She opens one and has to blink in the sudden sunlight that streams in, illuminating the close space. The other two follow close behind and then the galley looks like a completely different place, shadows banished for another day.

Looking back at her hands, she hesitates for another moment before gingerly putting the coat on. It’s a bit big across the shoulders, perhaps, and certainly longer on her than it had been on him, but it feels right. The coat is well-worn, frayed slightly on the cuffs and collar, but it’s still the finest thing she’s ever worn. She fingers one of the large wooden buttons; it’s loose, and will likely need to be re-sewn soon.

A gentle clink comes from one of the pockets. She reaches in and withdraws two things: a heavy silver chain with an anchor dangling from it, and a plain gold ring. A vague memory—she thinks she saw this necklace on the island, around his neck, but it can’t have been the same one.

She’s never seen the ring before. It’s large, too large for any of her fingers, but it fits snugly around her uninjured thumb. It feels right, just as the coat does, so she leaves it. She stares at the necklace again, trying to remember what charm had adorned his neck the last time she saw him.

A shout from the deck above breaks her from her woolgathering and she shakes her head, slipping the chain back into the pocket. She can’t waste time wondering where these gifts came from. Another day, perhaps. But for today, she has plenty of other things to dwell on. The work of a ship’s cook is never done, after all.


End file.
